Dead Wrong (22 page)

A long pause, then Davidson said, “What am I missing? How does this relate?”

“Sikes mentioned something about having classified information. The only thing I can think of that even comes close to that is the chief of neurosurgery at Lakeview has done research funded by DARPA.”

“I still don’t see any connection.”

“Guess I haven’t explained it very well, but it’s a feeling I came away with after thinking about things. See, I ordered both patients’ medical records twice, and neither one has been sent. Lakeview is notoriously slow in responding to requests, but even factoring that in, to not send either patient’s records after two requests? That’s unheard of. The only way I can explain that is if Wyse denied the requests.”

“Like you said, it’s a stretch. Keep thinking. Maybe you know things that just aren’t coming to the surface yet. Any closer to getting out of there?”

“I’m waiting on something.”

“Don’t mean to cut you off, but I need to get a few more calls in before it gets too late in the day. I’ll keep this line open. Call if something breaks.”

McCarthy hung up and immediately reviewed their conversation. There were so many little details to support the foundation of his conclusion—many still a bit fuzzy—he forgot to mention. To sell Davidson—or the authorities, for that matter—he’d need better proof. For that, he’d need someone to poke around in areas neither he nor Davidson could access. A person like Tony Cassera.

Cassera was a KING TV investigative reporter with a record of incredible perseverance in politically loaded high-profile cases. One in particular involved a local Korean politician suspected of protecting three businessmen involved with smuggling illegal Asian aliens through the Port of Seattle. Tony blew that story wide open in spite of receiving death threats. A year ago he had treated Cassera for a herniated lumbar disk, luckily with excellent results. From there they’d developed a casual friendship.

He dialed information and was connected to the KING TV main number which dropped him into an automated menu. He chose to be connected to the news desk. A male answered. “News desk.”

“Tony Cassera, please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“A friend. I need to talk to him. It’s urgent.” He hoped that using Cassera’s first name might validate the request.

The person turned testier. “Sorry, Mister Cassera is busy at the moment.”

Tom figured he only got one shot at this, so he dropped the bomb. “Tell him Dr. Tom McCarthy is calling.”

“I’m sure he can break free.”

Five seconds later, “Tom?”

Suddenly, time began evaporating, and if he didn’t explain his side of the story in a few seconds Sikes would burst through the door to kill him. “If you want the truth to what happened this morning listen carefully. I may not have much time.”

“Mind if I put this on speakerphone and turn on a recorder?”

“Perfect, but make it quick, I don’t know how long before they’ll find me and try to kill me again.”

S
ARAH ENTERED THE physicians’ lounge and glanced around, not sure what she was looking for other than a distraction from the relentless fear in her chest. Certainly she didn’t expect to find Tom drinking coffee and chatting up the anesthesiologists. Where was he, damn it?

By this time life in the lounge had returned to normal, the earlier excitement over the shooting churned into the wake of unrelenting workloads. A few stragglers, coffee cups in hand, still clustered at the television, which was showing the same reporter camped outside Magnuson, recapping the same story. Otherwise, the activity level appeared to be in the usual afternoon slump. She’d spent the last hour wandering halls on the off chance of spotting Tom. In the process, she’d casually checked out the more obscure exits—one in particular that led from the basement straight out to a side street—in case she found him still in the medical center. But as time passed with nothing on the news, the more optimistic she became that Tom had escaped. Certainly if he were captured the reporters would be all over the story instead of rehashing the old one.

She desperately needed a distraction to calm her nerves. What? Tea? That usually helped. But she doubted it’d work this time. Still, she pulled a white Styrofoam cup from an inverted stack, selected mango flavor from the picked-over assortment of bags, and filled the cup with steaming water.

She chose one of the unoccupied tables, sat down, and began raising and lowering the tea bag in the darkening water. What to do now? Her clinical duties were scaled back until the residency director returned from vacation to review all the facts surrounding the Baker prescription fiasco. So, in contrast to her usual hectic schedule she wasn’t pushed for time. Basically she had two options: continue to search for Tom or go up to the psychiatry offices and try to sweet talk the executive secretary into giving her a few minutes with Dr. Ripley, the department chairman. If she could convince the Ripper to hear Bobbie’s story, it might help remove her probation. Crap, she hated this stigma. Every psych resident knew about the Valium prescription, probably making her the butt of a new series of jokes. Double crap.

With a glance at her watch, she decided to do both. On her way to the Ripper’s office, she could swing by the call room again on the off chance Tom had circled back. That was doubtful, but worth a try. If he wasn’t there, she would continue on to the psych office. But first she needed to finish the tea and chill a bit.

She lifted the tea bag from the water, captured it in the white plastic spoon, and cinched the string tight around it, squeezing out water before setting the trussed teabag/spoon on the table. Finished, she sat back to try to relax, but her mind drifted to another married man and another huge mistake.

A loud laugh snapped Sarah back to the lounge, to an anesthesiologist and cardiologist over by a plate of cookies to the right of the coffee urns. The gas passer must have cracked a good one because the cardiologist was red-faced with laughter.

Her anxiety came crashing back like a tsunami, destroying any desire for the tea. She needed to find Tom and know he was safe. She’d try the call room one more time. And if he still wasn’t there she’d decide what to do next. Right now she just had to be moving.

She dumped the cup in the trash on the way out.

D
ELEON FRANKLIN WAS seriously pissed that his team came up empty-handed in the sweep of the medical center buildings, a maze interlinked by tunnels and sky bridges and obscure halls. Although he couldn’t change the fact that the search missed the terrorist, there was nothing to indicate McCarthy had actually escaped. So until another assignment arose or McCarthy was sighted elsewhere, he’d keep his men patrolling the halls. No one killed a law enforcement officer, federal or local, and got away with it. He’d see to that.

M
CCARTHY HUNG UP the phone after talking with Tony Cassera but stayed on the edge of the bed, thinking through his best escape route one final time. Take the stairs at the end of the hall down to the first floor, turn left, head straight to the emergency room, and simply walk out the ambulance entrance. Sure, traversing the ER carried a high risk of being noticed, but paradoxically it seemed to be his best shot. Mainly because it would be so bold that nobody in a right mind would figure he’d do it. So the vigilance level might be low. And, by wearing scrubs and a surgical cap, he’d blend into routine flux of employees. If he moved with the purpose, the docs and nurses might be too preoccupied to notice. Hopefully security would be looking for a nervous male in a white shirt and slacks. He didn’t know how many men Sikes had roaming the halls, but the cops probably outnumbered them. He hoped so, because getting picked up by the cops carried a higher chance of survival than with Sikes. The more he mulled it over, the more reasonable the plan seemed. Who knew, if he got lucky, he might actually just walk away.

Good. Now that he had a plan, he pushed off the bed ready to get going.

The doorknob rattled.

He froze, his heart accelerating like a rocket. Thank God he’d locked door.

It rattled again. Followed by a knock.

Shit!

“It’s me.”

He leaned against the door. “Sarah?”

“Yes, for Christ’s sake open up.”

She slipped in, quickly locking the door behind her. For a moment she slumped against it and looked at him with a mixture of relief and irritation. “Damn it, Tom, where’d you go? I came back and the room was empty. Scared the crap out of me. I thought … aw hell, I’m sorry.”

In the next moment she had her arms around him, hugging. But then she stiffened and pushed away, her face burning with embarrassment. “Oh, sorry.”

He was at an awkward loss for words, so he decided to ignore his first emotions and said, “Must’ve just missed me. I just went across the hall to clean up. When I got back the scrubs were here. I’ve been waiting. I figured you weren’t coming back and was just about to try leaving the building.”

“Leave? How?”

He explained the route.

“Then it’s a good thing I got here. It’s not safe yet. Police are still all over the place—
especially
the ER. So it’s a sure bet Sikes and company are too. Unless there’s a very good reason to go now, I’m telling you it’s best to wait until early evening. I can be your eyes. I’ll go out every now and then to see if things lighten up.”

He nodded in agreement. As intolerable as staying in the cramped stuffy room might be, he knew her advice was best.

“The good news is I found a basement exit to use. I checked three times and nobody was even near it.”

The room was so small they were face to face only two feet apart. He motioned to the bed, “Sit down. Let me tell you what’s happened.”

She sat, held up a hand to speak first. “First, I have to tell
you
something.” She told him about talking with Baker and how she admitted that Wyse gave her the Valium.

Tom wasn’t sure he completely understood. “It was a bottle and not a written prescription?”

“Yes! See, that explains how it had my name on the label. He must’ve printed it that way.”

McCarthy puzzled over that. Not that Wyse was incapable of such a Machiavellian act—he was—rather, why do it at all? The news added to his suspicion that Wyse was responsible for the claim that he possessed classified documents. But again, why?

With a puzzled expression, she asked, “That doesn’t surprise you? I mean, giving her a bottle of Valium, with
my
name on it.”

“Yes, it does, but that fits into what I want to say. Other than trying to keep from getting killed, it’s all I’ve been able to think about. Look, everything points to Wyse. He took care of Baker and Russell at Lakeview. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And when we requested their medical records they were never sent. That’s been months. The only explanation is someone blocked their release. And the only person who could’ve done that would be the treating physician.”

“Wyse.” She nodded for him to continue.

“Exactly. Then there’s the DARPA angle. When Sikes first mentioned classified documents he said something about DARPA.”

She frowned. “DARPA?”

“Yep, I remember several meetings where Wyse bragged about his DARPA funding. The never-ending spigot, I think he called it.”

She considered this. “Okaaaay, but I still don’t get it. What does all that have to do with what happened today?”

And this was where the logic tree stopped. “I don’t know, but everything else keeps pointing to Wyse. And Wyse has a connection to DARPA. I’m hoping Cassera or Davidson can help us figure out that part.”